


New haircut

by Kinns



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, FIFA World Cup 2018, Fluff, Haircuts, M/M, a bet is a bet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:32:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinns/pseuds/Kinns
Summary: "We are not co-dependent, we can spend a few days without talking.""Very well, did you hear, you guys? If you see them together, you know what you have to do."At first, they just forgot to cut their hair, then the lads took the opportunity to make a stupid bet: Antoine and Paul arenotco-dependent.





	New haircut

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done for the pre-fifa 2018 period, but actually no... At first, I planned to write 2k words, then...
> 
> Enjoy, I hope you will love! sorry for my mistakes...

They have a friendly match against Ireland to prepare the world cup in Russia in two weeks when Didier drops his bomb:

  
"You must cut your hair."

  
They are currently in the dining room and Paul understands why: it’s where they’re most relaxed, their defenses at the lowest level and where they accept almost everything. The coach is really sneaky.

  
After the cries of indignation, especially from Paul and Presnel, Blaise speaks up:

  
“Why should we cut our hair? Last time I checked, it was our heads.”

“You know all the stories about Russia and their rules... Guy, pass them the files.”

  
The assistant goes around the table to give them all a small booklet of about ten pages on the current regulations. Rather than open his own, Antoine leans his head against Paul's shoulder to read with him.

  
“To make sure everything goes well, you must respect a code that is strict enough for your hair.”

  
After a quick reading of the sheets, Adil quotes:

  
“No extravagant hairstyle, unnatural color or haircut, that questions the virility?”

  
Paul frowns as he rubs a hand through his beloved blue and blond hair. Antoine groans with discontent against him.

  
“Put it simply,” Blaise resumes, “hair cut short because they can’t stand the difference in Russia.”

  
Didier sighs, arms crossed while scanning the table of the eye, even if he dwells particularly on Antoine and Paul.

  
“To make sure everything goes well in Russia, there are rules you have to comply with.”

“Actually, it’s mainly for Presko and his dads,” Ousmane says.

  
Paul squints, Presnel and his... Ha dammit.

  
Two years ago, during the euro, a moron joked that if Pogba and Griezmann had a child, it would be absolutely Kimpembe. Why a striker and a midfield give a defender? That doesn’t make any sense. The worst thing is that this joke still follows them.

  
“Kim isn’t our kid,” he says.

“And we aren’t in a relationship.”

“Yeah sure,” Raph laughs.

  
Antoine pulls a sheet from his file, rolls it into a ball and throws it on the defender, all without falling off Paul.

  
“I won’t cut my hair,” the midfielder continues. “It shows who I am, it makes me unique!”

“Exactly,” Kim approves. “How are we supposed to leave our mark in history if we all look alike?”

  
As they take turns in great debates, Didier sighs by passing a hand on the face, desperate. The players not concerned sadly sympathize with his state of mind.

  
When they have finally finished their advocacy, the coach looks up at them, absolutely not convinced.

  
“There are rules if you want to participate in the world cup. So Paul and Antoine, take your son and go cut your hair.”

“He’s not...,” Antoine begins.

“End of the discussion. Go to the weight room now.”

  
All these false brothers get up in a minute and leave the dining room, abandoning the so-called little family. Paul glares at Presnel.

  
“Go fuck Julian, you're not our son.”

  
Presnel raises a dubious eyebrow in their direction, then shakes his head as he gets up.

  
"I may not be your kid, but you're a fucking couple.”

  
Kim leaves the room after a wink and Pogba would love to punish him in his room for that. With a sigh, he turns his head to catch Antoine's gaze, still leaning on his shoulder.

  
“We aren’t in a relationship?” Paul asks.

“We aren’t in a relationship,” Antoine laughs.

  
Nah, no chance they're in a relationship, where does this crazy idea come from?

 

* * *

 

They haven’t even all arrived on the pitch, that the coach is already starting to attack them:

  
“Why didn’t you cut your hair yet?”

  
Shit. Paul knew he had forgotten to do something yesterday. Rubbing his hand over his head, he exchanged a look with Antoine.

  
“We forgot?”

“Cut your hair.”

  
He rolls his eyes at his authoritarian tone.

  
“Or what?”

  
It would not be the first time he played with fire with him: in general, he burns himself and waits a little while before starting again, which corresponds precisely to now. Antoine buries in his scarf next to him, without adding anything.

  
Didier said nothing, addressing them the most disapproving look he has, too often reserved for Pogba and that doesn’t promise only good things. Once again, the pair exchanges a look, under the watchful eye of the other players who joined them.

  
“Make your hair cut. In the meantime, you train by positions.”

“No, coach!”

 

Antoine starts to complain to make him change his mind, while Paul throws his arms to the sky. Crap, he hoped to start the day quietly by training with his favorite pair.

  
“But why?” The blonde complains.

“To break your family, it’ll do you good to be separated.”

  
Didier smirks, visibly proud of his touch. Paul narrows his eyes.

  
“Kim isn’t our kid,” he spits out of habit.

“And we aren’t in a relationship.”

“I don’t care, you’ll start with five laps. Go.”

  
With a few grunts, the players start running around the pitch. Unsurprisingly, Antoine and Paul do it together to chat and joke happily. Regardless of what Didier said, they aren’t in a relationship.

  
Because, let's be serious thirty seconds, Paul and Antoine, in couple and Presnel's fathers? Pff not even in a dream.

 

* * *

   
“Cut your hair,” Didier still adds at the end of the day.

  
Neither shit nor 'good workout guys, I'm proud of you'. Where is the world going? Paul will do as usual: he just ignores him by joining the common room, jumping on the biggest hunk, next to the guys playing cards. It's not really his cup of tea, but it makes him comfortable to see them frustrate and insult each other before eating.

  
Presnel is one meter away from him, he can largely see his cards, while he faces Lucas, Ben, Ousmane and Kylian.

  
“You should put the one on the left.”

  
Presko turns to him to confirm who he is talking to, then follows his advice. Ousmane gives them a bad look.

  
“Don’t start being some protector daddy shit.”

“He's not my son.”

“So why are you helping him?”

  
Pogba rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment anymore. A few minutes later, discrete footsteps and a humming sound announce the arrival of Griezmann, who stops between Paul and Presnel. After a knowing look towards the midfielder, he leans against the defender's chair to see his game.

  
“No, put the other one instead.”

  
Once again, Kim follows the advice, attracting the wrath of all other players:

  
"Go to your husband, move on there," Ousmane groans.

  
Antoine laughs and almost falls on Paul, then cleverly slips into his arms, so as to keep a view of Presnel‘s game. The soft, blond hair caresses Paul's cheek, the smell of the shampoo slips into his nose, and he can’t stop his hand from sliding between the locks and the skull.

  
After a few minutes, during which Antoine had been strangely coughing at each Presnel’s turn, he finally turned his head to Paul, his eyes soft and almost asleep. They drown in each other's eyes, calm smiles lining their lips.

  
“I like it when you do that...”

“Oh yeah?” Paul answers, even if he knows it.

“Yeah.”

  
Antoine gets closer to him, then closes his eyes, accepting the cranial massage with pleasure. Paul imitates him, without taking his hand away, appreciating the source of heat against him. The noise around them cradles them more than it disturbs them, the life that lives in the room allows them to rest serenely.

  
“Presko, wake your old men up, it's time to eat."

“Yes, wait.”

  
Presnel dangles in his chair to hide the light above Antoine's eyes. The sudden darkness makes him frown, then open his eyes.

  
“What?” He asks, observing the surroundings.

“We are going to eat, wake your wife up.”

“Go bang Julian.”

  
Presnel laughs as he leaves his seat and jumps on Blaise's back calling him "Uncle". In spite of himself, he smiles seeing the family branches of their team. Even if, in all honesty, Paul isn’t his husband.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Paul didn’t even have time to play with his cornflakes, and Didier falls on him:

  
“Why don’t you have black hair?”

  
_What?_

  
Oh yes, he had to cut them.

  
“Coach, politeness in this world! Yes, I slept well and...”

“And you didn’t cut your hair.”

  
Didier casts a meaningful glance at Antoine, who is next to him and at Presnel on the other side of the table, who is joking with Flo and Ben.

  
“Take your husband and son, and get your hair cut.”

“Kim isn’t my kid and we aren’t married.”

  
Blaise laughs with Raphael; when did Paul think he had friends in them?

  
“Cut it as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Translation: one day, don’t worry.

  
Obviously, Didier also knows what it means since he has his grin No. 22 which is interpreted very easily by "stop being a dumbass Pogba, you’ll lose".

  
“If you still have that in the first friendly match, you won’t play.”

  
They all cast him an unconvinced look; as if it were possible.

  
“As long as it’s not done, you are deprived of Antoine.”

  
Blaise and Raphael take dramatic breaths, waiting for his counterattack, while Paul rolls his eyes. When separating him from his best friend is a threat to be taken seriously?

  
“Nice try,” he answers.

"Anyway, you’ll not even stand two days," the defender laughs.

“Thank you Raph.”

“It's true,” the other midfielder adds. “You are always together.”

“We aren’t co-dependent, we can spend a few days without talking to each other."

  
Nobody believes it. Pogba looks at them incredulously, shocked that they doubt that much of him.

  
“We can easily be apart for a week, who do you think we are?”

“Very good, did you hear it, you guys? If you see them together, you know what you have to do.”

  
Blaise and Raphael have smiles much too amused by the situation:

  
“Being apart includes: no messages, jokes, glances or a few exchanges between you two of any type.”

  
Blaise takes too much pleasure in this situation. Paul doesn’t need to look at Antoine to know that he has reached out his hand and slap in, ready to take up this stupid challenge.

  
“We’re the best and we’ll prove it to y’all.”

“Enjoy your last meal together, the co-dependents ones.”

 

* * *

   
Not even an hour later, the whole team is aware of their challenge and they have all made bets; what kind of traitor does that?

  
Normally, he would have joked with Antoine, but he can’t do it because it's obvious, no? Well, that's ridiculous, they're not co-dependent.

  
Olivier, Adil, Lucas, Ousmane, Kylian, Djibril and Ben bet they only hold two days. Pogba calls it ignorant.

  
Steve, Nabil, N'Golo, Alphonse, Steven, Florian and Corentin think they will crack after three days.

  
Blaise, Raphael, Thomas and Pavard estimate that they will stand for five days, no more. Basically, they support them, but not too much either.

  
Hugo, Samuel and Presnel are the only ones to bet that they would hold until the end. The real ones know.

  
Especially since there are still two teams: those who think that Paul will be the first to give up the weapons, those who meditate by saying that it will be Antoine. In both cases, they’re men of little faith.

  
Come on, it will be like during the regular season, without seeing each other...

 

* * *

 

The training is... different. Paul has instinctively advanced towards Antoine, but when Presnel has held him back with big eyes, he realized that it was not going to be that easy.

 

* * *

 

Unlike the other players, Didier separates them and doesn’t tempt them: at each exercise, he puts Paul and Antoine in different groups. Normally, they warm up together, joking, throwing jokes, but there...

  
Well, Paul is  _Paul_  , of course he is kidding with someone else and makes funny jokes. Who do you think he is? He gets along well with the whole team, he can hold a week without approaching Antoine.

  
Despite this thought, he can’t help staring at the striker more often than he dares to believe.

 

* * *

 

At evening meal, Hugo and Blaise get in between Paul and Antoine, so that they can’t see or touch ‘inadvertently’ or talk. It's weird. Paul laughs with Samuel, sitting next to him, and Adil, but something is missing.

  
They understand his jokes, but don’t capture all his references and miss the extent of his genius humor.

  
While going to sleep, Presnel exchanges a secret handshake with him:

  
“Don’t forget: no messages with Antoine, don’t cheat. I bet my haircut on your bullshit: like,  _why_  did you make a bet in the first place?”

“It's not me, it was the coach who starts it...”

  
The discreet and regular steps make him turn his head towards Antoine who arrives with Thomas. They have been exchanging their first look for a century, but Presko pulls his arm to stop him.

  
“No, don’t forget the bet: no languid glances.”

  
Paul narrows his eyes, shrinking his upper body significantly with a grimace.

  
“ _What_? Kim, we don’t...”

“Yes you do Pogba, you exchange languid glances.”

  
Thomas and Antoine overtake them wishing them a good night and Paul's heart is racing with fingers touching his, by pure chance. The other two return to their respective rooms, but Presnel gives him a disapproving look.

  
“I’ll say that I have not seen anything.”

“Go put your finger in Draxler.”

“Good night Pogba and get lost.”

“You too Kim.”

  
Normally Antoine hangs out in his room until late, it will be long...

 

* * *

  
“You look like crap, have not you slept?” Samuel worries.

  
Sam is a little on his team, so it's good if he tells him that he misses Antoine's presence a bit? Even in the regular season, they daily send snapchats, like twice a day to consult each other.

  
The midfielder turns his cereals in milk and coffee, before sighing.

  
“What do you do when Ous' isn’t around?” He asks instead.

  
On their private group, Ousmane once posted the pictures of a drunken comradery evening in Barcelona where he confesses his unconditional love to Sam. They all reacted well or just didn’t care at all. Kylian, Lucas, and Presnel put hearts on each photo, while Flo, Ben, and Corentin said they knew it from the beginning.

  
Other more sensible people just threw all the files on them and reinterpreted all their videos.

  
“We are in the same club.”

  
Paul looks up at him, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched.

  
“Sam, you're a terrible friend.”

 

* * *

   
“How is our co-dependent couple?”

  
They are gathered in an arc in front of Didier. Paul rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, while he can easily imagine his Grizou breathing wearily.

  
“We aren’t co-dependent,” he answers.

  
Pogba smiles on hearing him; he has almost missed his voice.

  
"Of course, I can’t wait for you to shave your heads. If you can’t do it, it will be skin short for you, your husband and your kid.”

“Kim isn’t our kid,” they answer in chorus.

"Of course," Didier says . “Subgroup, and go to your reserved areas.”

 

* * *

  
Before going to eat, Paul used to always stay a few minutes to kick ball with Griezmann and joke. Juggling while waiting for his partner to arrive, Blaise calls him to order:

  
“Do you already give your bet up?”

  
Damn…

  
At the table, Antoine wants to sit next to him, but seeing the complicit smiles and the silence that has caused, he remembers the bet and sits at the other end with Ousmane and Kylian.

  
Why did they make this stupid bet again?

 

* * *

  
The afternoon is reserved for muscle building. They each receive their individual exercises in turn, before comparing what they have to do between them. After reading his sheet, Paul looks for Antoine to see what they have in common and that they can work together.

  
The striker almost immediately felt his eyes slide on his skin and smiled at him shyly, before shaking his head from side to side. Paul acquiesces with a wink and moves serenely towards Presnel, who has already put some music on.

  
They will win the bet since they’re the best.

  
At the end of the session, Paul takes a deep breath, lying with Kylian, Sam and Ben on the tatami. The hopping steps naturally attract a smile to his lips and he isn’t surprised by feeling a towel being dropped on his face.

  
"You lost," Kylian says, too proud.

“No,” Sam replies, “they didn’t talk to each other. Bringing a towel isn’t against the rules.”

“Yeah, we have to allow them to stand by as long as they don’t talk to each other, let them devour each other's eyes for hours, and allow them to kiss each other, but that goes on since it's not against the rules,” Ben replies.

  
Paul sighs, straightening up and wiping his face.

  
“The rules prohibit contact in general or that is 'discussed' by the look. Here, no rules were broken.”

“It's too easy in this case,” Kylian plagues.

“As I am a good player Donatello, I accept this new rule and you’ll have to make a blond color when we win.”

“If you win,” Kylian corrects him.

“We will. Sam, can you tell the new rule to Antoine?”

  
What has he done?

 

His Grizou’s angry look during the whole meal confirms to him that he made a mistake.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Paul finds his gourd filled with lemon tea and honey. That's enough to give him a smile all morning, when they have 'Game Analysis and Strategy'. It's nice, but it's not really what he prefers.

  
They are forbidden to come in contact with each other, but not to have small attentions towards each other. What could Paul do to cheer him up?

 

* * *

 

At noon, Paul serves water to everyone, since in the pile there is Antoine's glass and Grizou understands his message. In fact, nothing prevents them from talking to each other through the group.

  
At the beginning of the afternoon during the small games, Paul makes a speech of collective encouragement, even if it’s very aimed. Samuel gives him a disillusioned look without commenting. He respects the rules, okay?

 

* * *

  
"You cheater," Presnel says.

“I thought I raised you better.”

“So stop cheating.”

“When do I break the rules?”

“Your way around, it's the principle of cheating: talking to everyone to talk to Antoine isn’t fair, it shows that you are even more dependent than what you think.”

  
Funny, because that's exactly the thinking he has for Jesse Lingard and Marcus Rashford when he's in Manchester.

  
Wait, that's how others see them? No, it's impossible... He has to talk to Antoine, they don’t need each other at this point, anyway!

  
After a step, he remembers and curses. Shit.

 

* * *

  
The fourth day is Sunday, they have a free day. The evening was long and he played at the console with Corentin, Steven and Blaise until no time. He wakes up at eleven o'clock and leaves breakfast quickly. Already seated are Antoine, Adil, Steve, Pavard and Hugo.

  
Despite his desire to stay and make up for lost time, Paul knows that if he drags, he can lose his bet and it's out of question. After ten minutes, he leaves the table to dress properly in his room.

  
He promised his mother to spend the day with her, he will stick to it. He also said that he would invite Antoine next time, but given the current situation, it will be for a next time.

 

* * *

  
Putting his head on his pillow, ready to fall asleep, Paul realizes that he literally spent the whole afternoon talking only about Antoine and that his mother scolded him for accepting a stupid bet that makes him feel bad.

  
Mathias sends him a funny video in the morning that makes him laugh. Paul is looking for Antoine to go and show him, but when he doesn’t find him, he thinks he can just send him a message.

  
The bet.

  
Paul wants to publish it on their group conversation, but everyone will know that it’s still a targeted message, no way they lose while they have already done the hard part. The video will join the pending list of things to send to Grizou.

 

* * *

 

“Still not decided to cut your hair?”

  
Paul offers a big smile to Didier:

  
“Not really, no.”

“Okay. I congratulate you, you're really stubborn. To reward you, I put you with your son.”

“Kim isn’t...”

"You’ll be against your husband.”

“Grizou isn’t...”

“We play!”

 

* * *

  
“I am impressed, I didn’t think you could hold so long without communicating."

  
Pogba raises his eyebrows, proud of him.

  
“Obviously Areola, we are good.”

“I take news of my wife and children every day, it must be hard to see Antoine and force you not to talk to him.”

“We survive, it's not very difficult.”

  
It's worse than that: Paul keeps all his jokes for him, he feels limp when Grizou isn’t with him while they’re in the same city, they can’t do any more instant tea, watch films together, quote replicas, string bullshit on a serious subject and jostle one another gently, exchanging complicit glances. It's over looks that say a lot, winks, smiles...

  
He can’t wait that it stops.

  
They aren’t co-dependent.

  
“Wesh cousin, why do you compare your family life to my old ones?”

  
Paul raises an eyebrow when he hears the sentence:

  
“Go eat Draxler, Kim: you're not my kid. And Al’ is even less your cousin. Stop expanding the family tree, it's annoying.”

"Too late," Presnel says, amused. “Blaise, Raph and Hugo are already my uncles. Ousmane and Kylian are my unwanted brothers. Lucas is my step-brother. Alphonse and Ben are my cousins on your side. Flo, Corentin and Benji are the ones on Antoine's side.”

“This situation makes you laugh too much. You're the worst son I have not had.”

“Ousmane and Kylian bet on your failure from the first day, it's worse!”

 

* * *

  
This family story is ridiculous.

  
Presnel and Ousmane would be Paul's direct sons, Lucas' Antoine and Kylian the fruit of their love.

  
Blaise is Paul's big brother. Hugo got that job for Antoine and Raph.

  
Sam is Ousmane's boyfriend and NG's brother.

  
After that, Paul hit Presnel and almost made him eat his napkin.

 

* * *

  
Monday afternoon is in the hall, so Paul still jokes with Sam and Ben, to change. Some of his thoughts slip without finding hooks, while a certain blond laughed at hearing them. Antoine manages to capture his different nuances, on all levels, understanding and hearing without difficulty. Paul knows that few people would be able to follow his jokes about pissing kids, then his thoughts on society, and his thorough analysis of people.

  
Two more days…  
 

* * *

  
Tuesday morning, Paul wakes up earlier than usual to put a hot towel in place of Antoine before he arrives, then returns to his room. The grateful smile that he sees on the lips of his blond thirty minutes later, makes fly butterflies in his stomach.  
 

* * *

  
“Paul, I heard the lads talk and it doesn’t sound good for you...”

   
Pogba casts a worried look at Hugo, his eyes wide open, already expecting the worst.  
 

“Yeah?”

“The lads want to win their bet, they’ll stop being fair-play...”

“Because they were?” The midfielder laughs.

“Yesterday, you had Blaise, Raphael, Benjamin and Thomas on your side, but today... Don’t attempt anything with Antoine, they’ll fall on you immediately.”

“Okay. Thank you for the information.”

“No problem, we can help between brothers-in-law.”

“Holy shit, Presnel dragged you into his madness.”

 

* * *

  
“Pogba, Griezmann, take your kid and cut your hair tonight or you’ll not play the next match.”

  
Pogba gives him a look absolutely not convinced, as if Didier could lead his threat at the end.

  
“Kim isn’t...”

“Run. Now.”

 

* * *

  
Hugo was right: Kylian, Olivier and Lucas are on his team and don’t stop throwing the ball towards Antoine, accidentally. The blond stubbornly turns his back on him, or calls Blaise to return the ball.

  
They don’t even train properly with their bullshit. Paul wants to complain to his partner, but that would be to prove them they’re right. Instead, he sighs, disillusioned. They can't talk to each other again.

 

* * *

  
Noon finally arrives, the midfielder has never been so morally exhausted. In addition these fakem teammates are so stupid: they rushed around the table so that the only remaining place is almost in front of Antoine.

  
He misses his best friend too much for him to break now. He wants to drop on the sofa and a hot water bottle slips into his arms, humming cartoons.

  
If he sits in front of Grizou, he will break: cry or talk with him.

  
Rather than playing the game, he moves Presnel from his place and joins the conversation between Ousmane and Samuel. He wants to hit that stupid couple. Why doesn’t anyone throw bets on them?

 

* * *

  
The afternoon is reserved for the study of the game of their next opponent, namely Ireland.

  
We'll say what we want, but Paul knows how to listen when he must and mentally notes how to play the Irish. It isn’t natural for him to be so static, but manages to calm down as soon as we talk about strategy.

  
Antoine isn’t agitated, but sitting in a chair for two hours excites him and he annoys people around him to change his mind; Paul gives him a very structured summary at the end in general. He just kicks the chair in front and disturbs Nabil next to him.

  
At the end of the session, Antoine stretches after his nap and wants to ask Paul what was said, but Sam holds him by the arm.

  
The bet, it's true.

 

* * *

  
In the middle of the evening, Paul falls asleep on the sofa in the common room, unaware of the noise around him. His favorite music of the moment sounds later, when he had not programmed anything. The alarm clock on his cell phone and the plaid on his shoulders were brought by someone well intentioned.

  
Paul falls asleep in his bed, always with a smile. There is only one person who knows his password, and that's his best friend.

 

* * *

  
Wednesday, the seventh day. Paul just wants to lock himself in his room so that nobody annoys him and that day finally ends.   
  
Someone knocks at the door and the distinctive tempo gives him a smile:  _Antoine_? With impatience, the midfielder leaves his bed to open the door, but frowns as he faces Samuel.

  
“Sam?”

“It was Antoine who knocked, then he went down. You coming? It's your last day, the others will make you break if you don’t take in advance.”

“Ok thank you.”

  
Paul meets Antoine's bright gaze, warming his heart.

 

* * *

  
Fortunately Sam warned him, seeing the disappointed look of others when they see Paul and Antoine sitting on the same line separated by Hugo, Sam and Ousmane, he suspects they had other plans.

  
Traitors.

  
“Both of you won’t play against Ireland.”

  
Didier gives them his look No. 16 which says "You burned yourself": obviously, he isn’t kidding anymore. Paul stares at him, then looks around to find the same confused look at Griezmann.

  
“Wait, are you serious, coach?” Antoine answers.

“You won’t put us on the bench because of our hairstyles, it's ridiculous!”

“I'm put both of you on the bench because you don’t listen, not for your hair, you know I don’t care. Now run.”

 

* * *

 

  
The bet no longer makes sense.

  
Paul wants to be warm in his bed hidden under his sheets, with Antoine who teases him to force him out of there.

  
Instead, he's juggling Blaise, NG, Steven and Corentin, death in the soul, in the cold.

 

* * *

  
At noon, Paul lays down in the common room, unable to swallow anything.

  
“Paul?”

  
He looks up from his cellphone to meet Samuel's eyes, who looks pained.

  
“Why are you doing this face?” He answers, an eyebrow raised. “Have you lost Ousmane or something?”

“No, you have eaten nothing, the coach isn’t very happy...”

“Because he noticed?”

“ _Everyone_  noticed that you were not there.”

  
Crap. This is the problem of being a teaser, impossible for his silence or absence to go unnoticed.

  
“Not hungry,” he says focusing on his screen.

“Go, take something. The coach will really forbid you to play the next game otherwise.”

  
He chuckles, passing a hand through his still colorful hair.

  
“He already made up his mind: I won’t play in the next match.”

“Paul...”

“Go to join Ousmane, stop bothering me.”

  
Sam sighs, but doesn’t insist.

 

* * *

   
“Pogba, you're sulking."  
  
  
Paul is resting in the common room, what is he doing on a whim? He turns in the sofa, back to Presnel, this ungrateful son.   
  
“Go to your room Kimpembe: you are grounded.”

“My father would not pass training for no good reason, so until then you have no authority.”

“I’ll tell Antoine tomorrow, we'll see that. And I am not sulking.”

“Oh yes _you are_ , now come on.”

"Go kiss Draxler, you’re a pain in my ass.”

  
Kim breathes loudly all the air inside his lungs, then leaves the room, exhausted.

 

* * *

 

Hopping steps and a characteristic humming give him a balm to the heart: Antoine. As usual, Paul smiles and turns to him. Ha, Hugo is here too, with Sam and Presnel, all worried, as the striker smiles quietly as he walks towards him.

  
Without saying anything, Griezmann holds out his hand, which Paul seizes almost immediately, in a hurry to finally put their skin in contact, and then carries him behind him, facing no resistance.

  
“See, no sulking.”

  
They stop in front of the trio.

  
“Hugo, can you accompany him to eat? We will go on the field and save you some time.”

  
Antoine shakes Paul's hand, before leaving without a look. It should not do anything to him, not squeeze his heart, or make him want to vomit his bowels, he should not want to hold his fingers between his, his body heat should not miss him, his stomach isn’t supposed to be tied in this way...

  
But it does.

* * *

  
Wednesday afternoon is reserved for small games in groups of six, where in turn, one team attacks and the other defends. In case of goal or recovery of the goalkeeper, they start again by inverting the roles. They do this for thirty minutes, rest for ten minutes, then go on against another group again, and so on until they have all clashed.

  
Paul is in team C, with Alphonse, Djibril, Sam, Blaise, and Ousmane. In front of them, team D.

  
Antoine is with Steve, Presnel, Ben, NG and Nabs in Team A.

  
Even if he plays well and plays his part of the middle, Paul is tired and has lost all motivation this week. When they face team A, Antoine and Paul put as much distance between them as possible.

  
It’s so much else for  _them_  to stay so far away, to respect their personal space, not to talk to each other or to understand each other with a look.

  
It has to stop.

  
When the training ended, he decided to send a message to Mika Caiola.

  
His own hairdresser.

 

* * *

  
Paul locks himself in his room after the stretching of physiotherapists, determined to sleep without eating. Lying under his sheets, his fingers slip on the name of Antoine, before dialing the number of his mother.

  
She gives him news of his cousins, his big family (the second degree), as well as what happens in the neighborhood. After about thirty minutes, Florentin is added to the call, quickly followed by his twin.

  
The weight he has had in his bowels all day disappears with each joke they tell and the laughter of his mother. He may no longer have Antoine, but his family is always with him and it’s much more precious.

  
That's what he thought until his mother asked if he stopped the challenge, then explained to Flo and Mathias what he did as bullshit. Two minutes later, Paul hangs up on them.

  
It's good, it's enough mockery and insinuate that he's married to Griezmann for a century.

 

Mathias calls him back, but he doesn’t answer. 

  
Florentin calls him back and he ignores him.

  
Yeo calls him back: just for the effort she had to add him to the conversation, he picks up.

 

* * *

  
His stomach remembers to him when someone knocks in a very specific way. Paul and Antoine have their own language for everything and anything, it’s natural that they have a way to say "let’s go eat".

  
Paul jumps out of bed, sure to find the empty corridor opening: which isn’t lacking. With a bored sigh and hands in his pockets, he walks to the kitchen shuffling his feet, now that the way is clear.

  
When he opens the fridge, he isn’t really surprised to see a cellophane plate well stocked.

  
The person who did it doesn’t surprise him.

 

* * *

  
Thursday morning. The weather is fine, the birds are singing, the sun is shining, Naza is ringing in the hallway, the boys are shouting and Paul is  _happy_. Ha, Paul is happy, go find out why. Maybe because he spoke with his mother, or the bet is over, or because his brothers are great, or he won his challenge, or because Mika is fine.

  
Or that he can talk with Antoine.

  
Or all at the same time.

  
Presnel's speaker playing thoroughly, they go down to have their breakfast victorious and louder than ever. He is happy.

  
Happy.

  
Glorious.

  
And maybe in love.

 

* * *

  
During breakfast, Antoine and Paul don’t speak yet, but both have smiles so big and so many looks that it would be necessary to be blind not to notice their common joy to be able to meet again.

 

* * *

  
“Presnel, take your dads and bring them to have their hair cut.”

"No coach," Paul replies, shaking his head, victorious. “That's not what you have to tell us right now.”

  
Stare No. 9: You're a child Pogba.

  
“Really?”

“Yes,  _really_  , I absolutely  _love_  it.”

  
Didier sighs, exhausted by the childish behavior of one of his best players.

  
“Okay, you won: Antoine and you can spend a week without talking to you.”

“And…?”

“You aren’t a co-dependent couple.”

“Aaaaand...?”

“And you won’t play the next match yet.”

“But coach...,” start both players.

“And you will have your hair cut, I won’t come back on it. Now go run.”

  
The two young men sigh, but obey anyway. They are lost in each other's gaze, the painful zygomatics, even if they don’t speak to the word yet. They enjoy having the right to be together again, savoring every second they find.

 

* * *

  
At the lunch break, they slip away together. Paul had only to hold Antoine's wrist and tilt his head outward so that he could understand his plans and follow him without asking any questions. In fact, he understands it so well that they didn’t need to talk to each other to find out what he wanted.

  
Only when Paul's playlist plays one of their favorite music do they start singing loudly. When it finishes, they look at each other and burst out laughing, all the pressure of a week finally finding a way out.

  
“My man, I missed you too much! Like a week without you was horrible!”

  
Quite naturally, speech regains its rights and they make up for lost time.

 

* * *

  
"Guys, have you lost your hair or what's the matter?”

  
Antoine and Paul look at each other, before stare at Presnel, as if a second head was pushed during the break.

  
“Kim,  _what are_  you talking about?” the striker slowly asks.

“You won the bet, why did you cut your hair?”

"Kim," the midfielder says in the same tone, " _what are_  you talking about?”

“Stop making your assholes, don’t play dumb with me.”

  
They observe each other innocently, before turning their attention to the defender, who sighs.

  
“Go fuck yourself.”

"Paul, your son is terribly rude.”

“He didn’t see his boyfriend Julian, that's why.”

"Please, you're the worst fathers I've ever had," Presnel grumbles.

 

* * *

  
It's been past midnight for a long time, but Antoine still speaks, tireless, lying on his stomach in a bed that isn’t his, his head resting on a firm leg but so soft and warm to the touch, with one hand expert caressing his freshly shaved head.

  
Honestly, there's no other way to spend a better late night than being in same bed with Paul, getting a head massage. Moaning with contentment from time to time, he abandoned the idea of returning to his room one day or leaving this room.

  
Or to leave Paul. This thought makes him smile and giggle.

  
“What’s up to you?”

  
Paul asks, playing on his cell phone with his other hand, leaning against the head of his bed. Antoine opens his eyes, stands up slightly to turn his head towards him before letting himself fall against his leg. He observes him without saying anything, noting once again in a corner of his memory every strong feature of Paul, his imperfections, the length of his eyelashes, the nuance of his eyes, the marks on his mouth too cheeky and so tempting that he wants to touch it, his eyebrows just banged...

  
“Stop lurking at me.”

“Am not.”

“On top of that, you’re lying.”

  
The brunette smirks, a strong heat in his chest, and reaches out for Paul's cheek. This isn’t the first time he's done that, he's never stopped touching Paul when he wanted to, except during this week and it was horrible. Even while in their respective clubs, he has only to take a flight to Manchester to have the time to touch him or he begs Paul to come and visit him.

  
Not surprisingly, Paul tilts his head against his palm, enjoying the warmth of his body. Antoine smiled when he saw him doing naturally, without asking questions or throwing him a gloomy glance. There it’s them.

  
Oh fuck, he just figured out why everyone thinks they've been in a relationship for so long, how could he miss out on that?

  
As he slowly straightened up and his heart beating wildly, Antoine keeps the contact against Paul's cheek, which is now watching him without understanding. On all fours near him, Antoine lowers the hand that held the cellphone, leaving his black eyes of apprehension and impatience under any pretext, before approaching to invade his personal space.

  
While they’re only inches from each other, Antoine realizes that Pogba is younger, smaller than him and so innocent. Because of his size, his character, his charisma, his entry into the French team before him, he tends to forget that Paul knows less than him and he is the last of his family. It's probably silly, but the youngest has always a certain innocence and doesn’t know how to take care of them.

  
“The last time that I was looked at like that, I get laid and couldn’t walk the next day: do you plan to make me wait longer?”

  
Antoine laughs at Paul's comment; forget what he said about the innocence of the youngest.

  
Taking his face in his hands, Griezmann kisses him wildly, impatient for so long, without being aware of it.

 

* * *

 

  
An hour later, Paul dozes on his stomach, while Antoine is sitting astride his legs, massaging the kidneys he has tightened with a little too much strength.

  
“We are in a relationship?” Paul asks, his voice broken.

“We are in a relationship, yeah, how can you still ask the question?” Antoine laughs.

“But I don’t want Kylian as my son...”

“Well, you should have think about it before. By the way, he's not the worst: there are Presnel, Ousmane and Lucas.”

  
The midfielder stands on his forearms and turns his head towards the striker, frowning, trying not to hurt his kidneys.

  
“Wait, there is something that bothers me: we have four kids, how have we managed not to have  _a single midfielder_?”

  
Antoine thinks: Presnel and Lucas, defenders, Kylian and Ousmane, forwards. He laughs at seeing Paul's pouting look.

  
“One must believe they took more from their father.”

“You already cheat on me with Varane? I am asking for a divorce.”

  
Laughing, Antoine kisses him to silence him. A good way to occupy his mouth and he knows  _so_ _many ways_ to occupy it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my english, that's not my mother tongue. If anybody wants to correct me, I take it!  
> Hope you loved it though!


End file.
